


feathers across the seasons

by fuyuki_peridot



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Folklore, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 14:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuyuki_peridot/pseuds/fuyuki_peridot
Summary: "If someday, I no longer had this beautiful voice," he says. "Would you still, even then, love me?""Of course," Minseok smiles kindly.





	feathers across the seasons

**Author's Note:**

> based on the japanese story "the crane wife" and the vocaloid song "shikiori no hane / feathers across the seasons."

The winter night brings with it a soft snowfall, light and powdery, dusting the mountains white, and with it comes the warmth of huddling against his loved one, comfortable and happy, even for all the leaks in the roof and the cracks in the walls and the weeds in the floor.

“It was snowing then, too,” Minseok says. “The day we met.”

“I remember,” Jongdae smiles. 

He turns his hearth-warmed face away from the flames, tucks it into Minseok’s soft sleeve instead, comfortable and happy. 

“I’ve never forgotten that day,” he murmurs. 

Jongdae looks up, meets Minseok’s eyes, deep and intense as always, but there’s a tenderness there, a tenderness that had been there even on the day they met. Sometimes, Jongdae thinks that that softness is only there for him, when he sees how intensely Minseok regards the other birds and the animals and even the fruit swaying in the wind.

“I haven’t either.” He tucks his face back into the warmth of Minseok’s sleeve, breathes in the scent of firewood and snowflakes and love.

“Thank you,” he smiles. “For saving me.”

“Dummy,” Minseok says, but Jongdae can hear the softness and kindness underneath it. He can feel it reverberating in his bones, can feel it warm his face the same way the hearth does. “I already told you, there’s no need to thank me.”

Jongdae rises to his feet, and Minseok’s rough hand links with his as he joins him. “But I am, so accept it, you idiot.”

“I refuse.” 

“You don't have a choice,” Jongdae laughs, and he puts out the flames. “Now let’s go to sleep. I don't want to hear you complain about being tired again.”

“I don’t,” he huffs, but he wraps an arm around his small shoulders and guides him to their shared bed all the same.

And this— this run-down home, this small bed— if he has Minseok’s love, then Jongdae is happy. This is all he needs. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too.” The rough sheets rustle as Minseok turns to him. “Now _ you _go to sleep.”

  


//

  


With a breath of joy, Jongdae sings of spring’s arrival along with the chirping birds. 

The powdery snow melts away, gives rise to bright flowers and clear birdsong, and with it goes Minseok, who now spends most of the lengthening days outside hunting and gathering and repairing their little home. 

Sometimes, Jongdae stays inside. Other times, he goes down to the market, sells whatever extra Minseok brings home and uses it to buy him something nice. A new haori, a pair of shoes. A pretty little feather-shaped hairpin. 

(His hair is starting to grow long, after all. Some days, Jongdae likes to run his hands through it, marvelling at its softness and cleanliness. Days like those are rare. Often times, it’s he who falls asleep first. He’s not quite as resilient or healthy as Minseok.)

Today, Minseok comes home to him taking down the clothesline. It had been a warm day, bright and delightful, perfect for precisely this. Perfect for putting his love into song.

“Your voice is beautiful,” Minseok says.

And just that, just those words— it’s enough to make Jongdae happy.

But the first thing he says is _ not as beautiful as you _and it ruins the moment and the admiring expression on Minseok’s face is replaced by this disbelieving look instead, and they both end up laughing anyways.

“I'm sorry,” Jongdae laughs. He folds up Minseok’s haori, the light blue long since washed out. “I couldn’t help it.”

He folds up his as Minseok wraps his strong, steady arms around his waist. “You’re ridiculous, Dae.”

And then his warmth leaves him and he watches as Minseok brings what fruits and animals he’s gathered into their house, heart swelling so happy happy _ happy_.

He’s almost done when Minseok comes back out with a skinny little rabbit and a knife. So he slows down on purpose, lingers in the dying light so he can stay outside with the love of his life, silent save for the rustling of rough cloth and the sounds of a meal being gutted.

Soon, they need a fire, and they set it up together, with Jongdae gathering the sticks and Minseok lighting it. 

“Thank you,” Minseok smiles at him.

And Jongdae would say _ you're welcome, _ but he’s all of a sudden overwhelmed with love and happiness and fondness and _ fear _. Because—

“If— if someday, I no longer had this beautiful voice,” he says. “Would you still— even then— love me?”

Minseok stops what he’s doing, looks up at him.

“Of course,” he smiles kindly.

The fear within him lowers its ugly head, drowned out by Minseok’s love again. Of course. Minseok loves him, no matter what. How silly of him to ask.

He feels a hand on his, rough and warm and comforting. “I will always love you.”

“Okay,” Jongdae says, because he does not know what else to say. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Minseok repeats. “Now— let’s eat?”

Jongdae takes the skewer from his hand. 

“Thank you, Min.”

“Of course,” he says again. 

//

Spring flies by in a whirl of colors and bright blossoms and sunny days.

A hot, sticky summer takes its place, fills the night with incessant insect noise, the day with endless chirping. 

And for Jongdae and Minseok, life goes on as usual. 

They pass the hot days by lounging around in the shade, working when it’s cooler or when they really need it. It doesn’t yield them much, but they never _ did _ need much. It’s enough to get by, and for Jongdae, that’s all they need.

Minseok, on the other hand, disagrees. “You’re so skinny and frail,” he says, rising from the battered tatami mat. “I’m gonna look for some more fruit for you.”

“You don’t need to.” He tugs Minseok down by the wrist. “I feel fine, anyways.”

Still, Minseok stands. He pulls his hand out of Jongdae’s grasp to pin his long hair up. “If you don’t eat it, then we can sell it. It’s good for us, either way.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Jongdae insists. 

And this, at least, satisfies him. They walk, hand-in-hand, half-filled baskets dangling off their shoulders. It ends up being a relaxing stroll instead of a productive harvest, but Jongdae is content to spend the muggy day with the light of his life.

  


//

  


One leaf-lit summer afternoon, Minseok collapses from illness.

And the days of bed rest and extra food he eats are simply not enough to fix it.

Poor as they are, they cannot afford the medicine to cure him— they can’t even afford to see a doctor for a diagnosis. All Jongdae has to work with is the meager supply of food they had gathered before Minseok had fallen sick, and now— now, he wishes that he had worked harder, persevered through those hot days, sold more and gathered more and done more to return the love and kindness Minseok had given him.

So he starts weaving.

The next day, and the day after that, all he does is intently weave, non-stop, ignoring the pain lingering in his skin and the ache burning in his fingers. Because this is the least he can do for Minseok.

Day and night, he pulls feathers from his own skin, turns them into a beautiful, shimmering cloth. This— this, at least, will fetch a rather high price. Enough to buy the medicine for Minseok.

The seasons rotate by, and the crickets’ cries mark the end of summer. 

And still, he weaves.

He won’t let Minseok’s life fall like the short-lived autumn leaves. He pulls his own feathers till his fingers don’t stop bleeding, even through the thick bandaging that only hinders him. And Minseok, kind as always, caring for him even when he’s terribly ill— Minseok dresses the wounds for him.

“Your fingers are beautiful,” Minseok whispers. He covers Jongdae’s hand with his own, strokes over the burning skin, but his are much too cold. 

Later that night, while Jongdae prepares their food, he stares down at his fingers. Bleeding and red, painful and swollen. Minseok had said they were beautiful.

Carefully, he carries the tray to Minseok’s side. 

“If someday, I no longer had these beautiful fingers,” he says. “Would you still, even then, love me?”

Minseok takes his hand again, brings it up to his lips. 

“Of course,” he coughs, stroking it again.

  


//

  


Day and night, he doesn’t stop weaving.

From before the sun floods their house with gold, to even after every last bit of warmth and light has gone, he weaves and weaves and weaves, now half-way done with the silk brocade. 

He holds it up, examines it by the candlelight. It’s beautiful. It will surely be enough for the medicine, and for food, and for whatever else they would need to survive this month. His hard work and sacrifice will benefit them, in the end.

Jongdae folds it up, sets it down. He’s bleeding again. He is done, then— at least for tonight. 

Quietly, carefully, he snuffs out the flame, and creeps back to their bed. He sees that Minseok is already asleep, shivering in the thin sheets. 

They’ll both have to hold out for just a bit longer. He’ll be done with the cloth before the maple leaves shed, and then he will go to the market and sell the cloth and buy the medicine and cure Minseok, and all will be good. They’ll resume life as normal, and be happy with just scraping by because having each other is enough for them both.

Jongdae just has to hurry. 

  


//

  


“You don't have to do this,” Minseok says. He sounds even more breathless than he looks. “You’re hurting— you’re bleeding.”

“I know.” He pulls another one of his scarce feathers out, turns it into a part of the beautiful cloth. 

Minseok’s hand clasps over his, shaky and shakier. Sick and sicker. “Jongdae, you don't have to do this for me.”

But he is wrong.

Minseok is the very reason he is doing this, and he will keep using up his feathers and tearing his fingers apart if it means that Minseok will live. 

Because what is love without sacrifice?

Sacrifice _ is _ love, and they both know it more than anyone else.

Jongdae rests his other hand on top of Minseok’s. Dying and nearly dead.

  


//

  


The breeze sways the decaying fruit on the trees till they fall into the pile of maple leaves with a sad, little sound.

It’s a lost cause.

And even so, he keeps going. He keeps going, because what point is there in giving up when he’s so close to the end? 

_ If someday, I were no longer human, would you still, even then, love me? _he’d asked. The truth he had always feared remains untold.

He wraps his fingers around a feather. His fingers ache so bad he can hardly feel them anymore.

Would he have said _ of course _ like he always did? Would he even have remembered the crane he had saved that day?

Softly, he plucks the final feather alone.

  


//

  


“Of course,” Minseok says, smiling.

Minseok’s arms, strong and steady and warm as they always were, wrap around his shoulders reassuringly.

“I promised I’d embrace you when you lost your wings.”

Jongdae wraps a hand around Minseok’s wrist. Warm and warmer, no longer scarred and bleeding and aching. All the pain, gone.

“You did,” he recalls.

“The beautiful crane from that day, I’d never forgotten,” Minseok says. “I still remember, even now.”

The truth he had always feared lowers its ugly head, drowned out by Minseok’s love again. Of course. Minseok loves him, no matter what. How silly of him to doubt.

“And just like always,” he says, “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while since my last exo work. i'm also late to posting for jongdae's birthday... but i hope you enjoyed it anyways !


End file.
